i believed shivering in a ruined apartment at 19,
wrapped in an electric blanket on borrow,
was about as low as low could get; wavering from raw to red, and on occasion, to god,
just so i could say,
the voices from next door were my only company over 39 cent ramen on most nights, but still
most everything was crippled.
nothing worked. nothing was gained for several months, and there was nothing more to lose.
the clouds were thick with stale mouth and everything was dim.
the days and hours didn’t move.
i searched for conviction in ashes, but only came up with dirty hands. i bloodied knuckles on walls and doors, but never faces: there weren’t any.
i quit drugs
and some days cigarettes.
but i would start again with a passive thunder.
then i would stop again
(due to flu or hangover).
everything was useless and nothing made sense:
except for lint on the rug in the evening light,
or the owls in the woodgrain of the closet door.
i gave up on giving up finally,
and regarded the mass of everything small stretching all over the place outside, instead.
the meaning behind it all
was that there was none:
just mouse shit, stale air, and the thawing gutters.
it was just enough to grow on.
and things began to get better.